


Absence of the Heart

by Raicheru



Series: Here We Go a Witchering [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (No sex with Yennefer), Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Marking, Mentions of kidnapping, Naked Cuddling, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicheru/pseuds/Raicheru
Summary: Geralt once again feels his ties to Yennefer pull tight, drawing him back to a relationship that he's not sure how to end definitively.  Now that he's found something real, the difference between ensorceled lust and natural love that develops between partners is obvious.  He's not sure how he ever mistook one for the other and he struggles to maintain his balance between the two people he's drawn to for very different reasons.  When he returns to Jaskier who has his heart, he claims him without meaning to and then apologizes for what he feels was a failure to protect him in the past.*Can be read as a one-shot.  Reading the entire series isn't necessary. Past events are referenced, but only in passing.
Relationships: Canon Geralt/Yennefer, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Here We Go a Witchering [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654147
Comments: 14
Kudos: 260





	Absence of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> It was my intention to use this series as a palate cleanser when I needed to take a break from working on longer stories, but this is where I've been spending most of my time lately.

The inn was crowded and Geralt had retreated into a corner trying to avoid the tight press of people. Jaskier was crooning to the crowd, singing about love and longing in a way that was making the maids weep and the menfolk dab at their eyes with their sleeves while pretending that there was an abundance of dust in the air. It had won top honors at the festival in Vizima last month and it never failed to garner a response. Geralt sighed, and took another sip of tepid ale. He enjoyed Jaskier's singing despite the comments he'd made to the contrary when he'd been sleep deprived. He didn't, however, appreciate the wanton sighs and casual touches that brushed his bard's arm as he moved around the room. But he had no cause to feel this way. Jaskier was free to do whatever he wished.

Tamping down on the newfound possessiveness that both surprised and frustrated him, Geralt scanned the crowd and tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Jaskier played to the crowd with a wink and a grin, but his gaze would always sweep towards Geralt's corner, seeking him out. A quiet smile would curl his lips as he sang, like they shared a secret. Geralt's mind would ease in a strange wash of relief. It reminded him that his heart was held in gently in Jaskier's hands and the younger man was baffelingly protective of it. While some might dismiss Jaskier as a womanizer and a cad, the truth was that he loved many and often, giving part of himself to others wherever he traveled. But his love was ephemeral. Not temporary perhaps, because it never truly faded completely. But it wasn't deep enough to tie him down anywhere as evidenced by his on again, off again affairs with Vespula and the Countess de Stael. But he'd been at Geralt's side for years now without wavering even when they occasionally parted ways for a time.

Geralt stiffened as he caught a whiff of something sweet. Lilac and gooseberries. His eyes shifted towards the door and he saw the flip of inky dark hair, and the sweep of black and white fabric. He felt her pull even though he hadn't even seen her face. Turning his gaze briefly back toward the other side of the room, he caught Jaskier's eyes. The bard had noticed his shift in posture and looked askance, but Geralt shook his head and picked up his sword case. Jaskier nodded in understanding and turned his attention back to the patrons. He was assuming a contract had come up which made Geralt feel a small pang of guilt as he headed toward the door. But like always, the connection between himself and the sorceress was pulling tighter with proximity. It was like an itch between his shoulder blades that was only eased by sinking into her. He just hoped she didn't expect him to go through a portal this time.

Outside, there was no sign of Yennefer, but her perfume left a clear trail through the village and out towards a nearby field. During Belleteyn it would be filled with vendor stalls, games, tables of food, and numerous bonfires. But in the waning days of summer, it was empty except for the small tent set up by the edge of the woods. It would be larger on the inside with more comforts than could be found in the inn he'd just left behind. Geralt paused at the tent flap, suddenly wondering if he was really going to do this when he had a pliant, willing bard ready to wrap himself around him the moment he was done serenading the patrons at the tavern. But Geralt felt the tug pull hard at his middle as the cool night breeze brought him another waft of sweet perfume.

He slipped inside, noting the ornate braziers, armoire, and the large bed. There was a trail of clothes leading to the deep, steaming tub in the corner. Yennefer was nude and she raised her foot to step delicately into the water, not bothering to look back at him. The firelight played against the curves of her body as she lowered herself down. Her hair had been drawn up to keep it dry and loose curls spilled out of the gilded clip near the crown of her head. She settled in the water with a sigh and a quiet hush of water against the sides of the tub. When Geralt made no move to join her, she languidly turned and settled to rest her arms on the edge. 

“Not joining me?”

“What do you want, Yen?” he asked, suddenly not interested in being there. For the first time since he'd inadvertently tied them together with a wish, he wasn't consumed by the want of her. He wasn't entirely sure he could leave without actively fighting against the pull, but at least he had a clear head. Her eyebrows rose as she saw his flat expression.

“Hmm. You're usually less coherent that this. More. . .”

“Bewitched?” he finished for her.

Yennefer frowned. “If anyone did any bewitching, it was you, Witcher,” she said, her tone cold. “I didn't ask to be saved.”

“As you're always so keen to remind me,” he said bitterly. They'd had this conversation before. Many times. Geralt was in no hurry to revisit the topic again when it wouldn't solve anything. 

“I would avoid you if I could,” she said, turning around in the bath and lifting an intricately carved bar of expensive soap. “Had I known you were here, I would have traveled a different road.”

“Why not teleport? It's how you generally prefer to travel as I recall.” He couldn't quite keep the sneer out of his voice as he remembered the last time she'd shoved him through a portal with her power when he had refused to move on his own. He'd come out on the other side intact, but the disorientation had left him nauseous for nearly an hour.

“Some materials and ingredients don't travel well by portal. They require a more delicate touch.” She slid the bar of soap up her arm. Her tone was bored when she spoke again, a hint of annoyance bleeding into her words. “Do sit down. I hate when others look down on me.”

“The esteem you have for yourself doesn't allow for that no matter how much taller others are or where they stand,” he said, setting down his sword case and sitting on a stool at the small table by the tent flap. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in Vengerberg?”

Yennefer's head turned a bit, but she didn't look at him directly. “It hardly matters. My business is my own and you don't appear interested in what you're usually after when you see me. I didn't think we'd be doing this much talking when I saw you in the tavern.”

Geralt hummed a noncommittal response, not interested in telling her why he wasn't drawn to her the way he usually was. Standing, she stepped out of the bath and plucked up a thick, fluffy towel to dry herself before slipping into a shear, black chemise that trailed black lace down to her ankles. He still appreciated her appearance, taking in how her curves looked in the firelight. But it was a more distant feeling that didn't pull as much as it used to. Catching his approving look but seeing that he was still seated seemed to bother her and her eyes narrowed.

“I see your little song bird is still trailing after you. He's starting to age a bit, don't you think?”

Geralt just looked back at her calmly, not rising to the bait. To be honest, Jaskier hadn't changed as much as he probably should have since they'd first met. He'd been barely twenty summers when he'd followed after him in Posada and it had been more than fifteen years since then. But Jaskier's face still carried the softness of human youth despite the trials he'd been through on the road. 

Yennefer sneered. “Have you bedded him yet, or are you still oblivious to his pathetic pining?

Her words didn't shock him as she'd intended. If she'd made the same comment a year ago, before he'd really contemplated what the bard meant to him, he probably would have been uncomfortable and snappish. But all he felt was a level of calm that usually required meditation to attain. 

“Why are you so unhappy?” he asked her suddenly. 

Yennefer's lip curled in distaste. “Happiness is for children who don't know any better. It's a fairy tail spun by those unwilling to face the world for what it really is.” She laughed bitterly. “Don't tell me you think you're happy. Tumbling a bard who's seen more tits and cock than a Novigrad tart is hardly an achievement. You honestly don't think he'll stay at your side forever, do you?”

“You're angry about something, and it's not Jaskier,” he said, wondering what was really bothering her. He stood when she abruptly turned away from him.

“You don't get to do that,” she said with a hiss.

He moved forward and rested his hands gently on her shoulders, relieved that she didn't pull away. Something really was bothering her. “Don't get to do what?”

“Sit there calmly. Caring. Like some patient . . .friend,” she spat the last word. 

“You chafe against the wish and resent that we've been lovers drawn by magic. Now you're fighting the compromise I'm trying to make.”

She whirled, and pushed him back a step. “Compromise!? You think this is some kind of negotiation? That you can bargain with my feelings? We're not friends, Geralt.”

Geralt stood watching her and felt a pang as the words he'd once thrown at Jaskier in a fit of temper were used against him. “You're still important to me, Yen. I meant that.”

Yennefer's violet eyes glistened and her lips twitched as if she wanted to sneer again but her mouth wouldn't cooperate. She moved to the bed and sat on the edge. “I hate it when you do that,” she said quietly.

Geralt started loosening his armor and she raised a brow. “Don't give me that look,” he said. “Despite the numerous rumors about Witchers, I don't sleep in my armor.” Setting the pauldrons and chest plate aside, he removed his boots and and shirt before coming over to sit next to her. 

“I thought you had no interest.”

“Perhaps not, but I'd still like your company.” He didn't really want to leave her alone when she was this upset. She guarded her feelings carefully after a lifetime of manipulation and abuse. He didn't know much about her past, as she was unwilling to share and he wouldn't press. But the years had left their indelible mark on her. Geralt reached over to loosen the clip in her hair, letting the dark curls tumble down around her shoulders. 

“At least you don't smell like your horse,” she said looking over at him before moving back on the bed and slipping under the covers. “Though rosemary and mint don't strike me as your first choices.” 

Geralt would never admit out loud that he liked the soap Jaskier always carried. The smell had become so intertwined with the underlying scent of the other man, that he found it strangely comforting. Jaskier hoarded the bars like gold on the road and would ask around to see if he could have it made when his supply ran low and it wasn't readily available. When singing at court, Jaskier would switch to rosewater, but he'd always come back to the soap when he traveled. Geralt slipped under the covers and drew Yennefer into his arms. There was no heat or lust. Just companionship. She lay tense in his embrace until she took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to relax with an effort of will. 

“Will we ever be free of each other?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“I don't like that it's out of my control.”

Geralt ran a hand down her back, his fingers trailing lightly in a comforting gesture. “Nor do I. But I would rather have it settle into this than have you hate me.”

“I. . .” Her words faltered and she snuggled into the pillow. “I don't hate you,” she said finally.

“Glad to hear it.”

“It would be easier if I did.” It almost sounded like regret in her voice.

“Perhaps,” he said, but didn't really believe it. 

Geralt said no more, letting himself relax into the bed and shift slightly as her body pressed up against him under the covers. He hoped this would be enough to satisfy the pull of the wish. Geralt fell asleep with the tune of Jaskier's contest winning ballad floating though his head as if his heart was admonishing him for staying.

*******

Geralt opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a a thick fog. He felt detached from his surroundings like he was just an observer and not really standing outside the tent in the field. He could see a small, rectangular carriage sitting outside the inn in town. Looking at it filled him with foreboding as two men got out, leaving a third holding the reigns like they planned to leave quickly. He didn't recognize their livery. Geralt moved smoothly across the field and past the carriage into the inn. There was no sign of Jaskier in the bar and few patrons remained. 

He found himself upstairs in the room he was sharing with Jaskier to see him sleeping peacefully under the covers. The door suddenly burst open and the bard sat up in bed clutching the blankets to him like a shield. Geralt could have sworn he heard the Jaskier whisper his name as the two men advanced on him. Before he could scramble away, one of them pinned him down on the bed while another pulled a cloth out of his pouch and pressed it to his face. Jaskier fought, but he was smaller and weaker than his attackers. His movements began to slow until he went limp in their grip. 

Geralt screamed. He tried to fight. But he was insubstantial and they took no notice of his presence. He watched helplessly as one of the men gathered Jaskier up in his arms and carried him out of the room, half wrapped in the blanket. The bard's head had fallen back exposing the pale column of his throat and his arm dangled down where he lay limply in the man's grip. Geralt tried to block their way but they walked right through him like he wasn't even there. He followed them down to the street where the two of them loaded Jaskier into the waiting carriage and started to drive away. Geralt found himself being drawn back toward the tent, watching them get farther and farther away. He tried to scream one last time and he sat straight up.

Reality snapped back into focus with a rush that left Geralt's ears ringing. He was sitting in the bed in Yennefer's tent. The braziers had burned down low, leaving the interior cloaked in shadow.

“Geralt?” Yennefer looked up at him, blinking sleep from her eyes.

He whirled on her. “What did you do?”

“What?”

Geralt ripped back the blankets and reached for his shirt. “Jaskier's in trouble. What have you done?”

“Nothing,” she snapped. “I have done nothing to deserve such accusations from you.” The level of comfort they'd reached earlier ratcheted up to a level of tension he hadn't felt since they'd first realized what his wish had done. “If you're going to insult me, you can just leave.”

Geralt was already pulling on his boots. He didn't bother putting on his armor as he snapped it up along with his swords and stormed out of the tent. Running across the field, he was relieved to see that there was no carriage outside, but dreams were tricky. As much as he scoffed at destiny as being invented by people to make themselves feel better, he knew better than to take such visions for granted. The common room was nearly empty and the innkeeper seemed startled by his sudden entrance. Geralt paid him no heed as he dropped his armor at the foot of the stairs and drew his sword, taking the steps two at a time.

When he threw the door to their room open, Jaskier jumped where he was sitting on the bed with his ankles comfortably crossed. His quill scraped across the page, snapping the tip of it and making a dark stain on the paper.

“Merciful Melitele, Geralt!” Jaskier put an ink stained hand on his chest and gripped the fabric there. “If you're trying to give me a heart attack, you've done a masterful job.” The bard blew out an unsteady breath as he took in his panicked appearance. “Geralt, what wrong? Talk to me.” 

Geralt approached the bed slowly, scanning the small space for dangers and scenting for anything out of place. But all he could discern was the smell of Jaskier's soap around the water basin from where he must have washed up before bed. Jaskier set his notebook aside and crawled to the edge of the bed to kneel there looking up at Geralt, a look of concern on his face. Geralt moved in and kissed him soundly as if trying to reassure himself that the other man was really there. When they pulled apart, Jaskier sat back on his knees and turned his head away. A muscle in his jaw tensed.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked him.

“I'm fine. I'm just trying to maintain the illusion that you didn't just roll out of her bed and directly into mine.” 

Geralt immediately backed away and flared his nostrils, suddenly not wanting Yennefer's scent on him. He stripped off his clothes and dumped them in the corner before taking the damp washcloth and filling the basin from the waiting pitcher. He scrubbed himself quickly with Jaskier's soap, relaxing as it became the only thing he could smell. 

“What did she do to you?” Jaskier asked quietly.

“Nothing.”

“It wasn't 'nothing' that sent you crashing in here looking like you'd just witnessed my death.”

Geralt dried himself off and stood there, not entirely sure how to describe what he'd seen. Seeing Jaskier's demise would have been upsetting to be sure. But seeing him stolen by strangers somehow felt worse. It had happened on more than one occasion and he was lucky that he'd found him before something disastrous happened.

“It was just a nightmare, I guess.” It had felt real enough and he didn't typically have dreams, prophetic or otherwise. Before he could say anymore, he was interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared. Geralt looked toward the still open door where the innkeeper stood, shifting his feet nervously. “What is it?” Geralt growled. 

“Is anything amiss, Master Witcher?” The innkeeper sounded a bit timid like he was hoping not to get an answer. His eyes scanned Geralt's naked body and flicked towards Jaskier before lowering to the floor. A dark flush crept up his neck. “Begging your pardon, sirs,” he said uncomfortably.

“Everything is fine,” Jaskier assured him smoothly as he rose up off of the bed and headed toward the door. He nipped a coin out of an inner pocket sewn into the lining of his trousers and spoke quietly with the man who relaxed and nodded. Jaskier accepted Geralt's armor and sword bag with a murmur of thanks before shutting and locking the door in his face. Turning, he held up the armor with raised brows before setting it aside with their bags. “In a hurry, were we? Really, Geralt. What on earth is the matter? I find it hard to believe that a nightmare sent you running in here.”

Geralt didn't answer. Instead, he moved in on him, catching his mouth in another deep kiss and turning him so he could maneuver him back towards the bed. He gripped the fabric of Jaskier's shirt and the bard's hands immediately covered his own, squeezing a warning. He broke off the kiss, and spoke between quiet huffs, his breath already quickening.

“Don't you dare rip another one of my shirts,” Jaskier warned as he tried to pry Geralt's fingers free so he could remove the garment himself. He looked down and let out a little squawk of dismay when he saw his own inky fingerprints staining the fabric. “I swear I should be charging you a commission on all your contracts just to cover my ruined clothes,” he muttered.

Geralt shifted his grip and pulled the shirt off of him with a little more care, if only to avoid the incessant complaints that would follow. He suddenly wanted to hear him moan for a different reason. His fingers glided up the bard's sides, the deliberately soft touch making the muscles quiver under his hands. Jaskier gasped and let himself be laid back on the bed so Geralt could tug his trousers off. The younger man was already hardening and he scooted back once free of his clothes. Geralt tossed the garment aside and crawled onto the bed, looming over Jaskier where he lay beneath him. His blue eyes were dilating and he was giving off waves of arousal. But when he leaned up for a kiss, Geralt pressed him back down to the bed with a hand on his chest. 

“Please don't tell me you expect me to just lay here while you. . Oh!” Jaskier's hips bucked up as Geralt curled his fingers around him. “That's . . . cheating,” he panted.

Geralt knelt between his thighs and leaned down over him to kiss him hard, licking into his mouth and prying his teeth apart with his tongue so he could delve inside. Jaskier groaned into his mouth, as he ran his hands along Geralt's chest, tracing the scars there. Kissing his bard breathless, Geralt started moving his lips along his jaw and down his neck. He nipped and bit before licking along the pink marks made by his teeth. He growled low in his throat making the man beneath him shiver before he started sucking on a spot just above his left collarbone. It became red quickly and he licked over the spot, knowing it would soon darken and purple. 

Geralt sat up, sliding his fingers under Jaskier's rear and pulling his torso down the bed so he could lift his hips to settle them on his lap. Jaskier's fingers were already grasping at the side table for the bottle of oil he habitually had within reach when they shared a room. Geralt reached down and found him already slick and stretched. Jaskier grinned up at him wickedly, not so far gone that he wasn't aware of what kind of effect he was having on him. Geralt used the oil on himself before guiding his cock slowly inside. Hooking his arms under Jaskier's knees, he curled the other man's body underneath him, rolling him back on his shoulders. Jaskier tilted his head back and arched his neck beautifully, clearly not expecting him to sheath himself to the hilt so quickly. 

“Geralt. . .” he gasped. 

Geralt's eyes locked onto the mark he'd made and started rocking in and out of him, leaning down to continue claiming his territory on the other man's skin. Losing himself in Jaskier's body, he quickened his pace, gripping the other man's weeping length in his hand to stroke him in time to his thrusts. Jaskier was keening softly and he kissed him again to swallow his cries as he released. Geralt worked him through it with one last soft squeeze before letting him go and following. Jaskier was breathing heavy, blowing out huffs of air with his hands thrown up above his head. He reached down to touch his collar gently, wincing a little when he prodded one of the darkening marks with his fingertips. 

Geralt felt a little hesitant now that he was no longer distracted by need. There were light indentations in the bard's skin from his teeth around the bruises. He wasn't in the habit of biting his lovers. Nobody had ever been comfortable enough to let him do that and he'd never really been inclined to do so. He got up and went to the washbasin to get a clean cloth. Jaskier stretched like a satisfied cat on the bed when Geralt gently wiped him clean. 

“Did I hurt you?” Geralt asked quietly, 

“Not in a bad way, I assure you,” Jaskier said, his voice a little smug as his fingers continued to trail over the marks in small circles. He pressed down with the pads of his fingers occasionally, closing his eyes as he did so. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed and moved Jaskier's hands aside gently to examine the wounds more closely. He hadn't broken the skin, which was a relief. He wasn't sure what Jaskier was so pleased about, but then again, they hadn't really discussed their sexual preferences as such. They just started touching each other, each trusting the other to stop if a line was crossed. He knew pleasure and pain could intertwine themselves in a way that was hard to separate. Geralt trailed his fingers over the marks and Jaskier rested a hand over his, squeezing gently. 

“What is that brooding look for, my Dear Witcher? I am perfectly capable of speaking my mind when you do something to displease me. And this was definitely not one of those occasions.”

Geralt huffed and looked down at him with a frown on his face. “I am aware of that, but this is a little different than whining about the cold or ruined clothing.”

Jaskier raised Geralt's hand to his mouth so he could kiss his fingers. “Does it surprise you that it pleases me to wear your mark on my skin?” 

“I don't own you Jaskier,” Geralt protested, suddenly uncomfortable.

“No, you don't. Nor have I ever asked for your undivided attention.” 

“I'm not interested in having both you and Yen.”

“And yet here we are.” Jaskier crossed his legs at the ankle and clasped his hands over his middle, completely at ease in just his skin. “It doesn't bother me,” he said. When Geralt raised a brow, he sighed. “Well, it doesn't bother me much anyway. Her particular fragrance just brings up some rather uncomfortable memories. The woman did threaten to cut off my dick, after all, and I'm rather fond of it.”

“When?” The two of them sniped at each other whenever they were within speaking distance, but Geralt wasn't aware that she'd ever assaulted him before. Her words were usually sharp enough.

Jaskier shrugged. “Back in Rinde. She was rather insistent that I make my last wish. Not that it did anything,” he said sullenly. Jaskier paused for a moment, his eyes widening. “It was never mine to make, was it? Of course, it wasn't,” he said not waiting for a response. “The Countess de Stael refuses to return my messages and Valdo, the sniveling puss bag, still breathes.”

“The last wish was mine,” Geralt confirmed slowly, not liking where this conversation was going. He took his hand back and rested it on the outside of the Jaskier's thigh, rubbing his thumb idly against his skin. Jaskier's gaze had become distant like it did when he was thinking. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and nibbled unconsciously in a gesture Geralt found endearing every time he saw it. 

“I've long since owed you an apology,” Geralt said, not wanting to continue this train of thought, but feeling that it was necessary. 

Jaskier's gaze sharpened and he gave him a wry smile. “For unwittingly setting the jinn on me?”

“You assume it was unwitting.”

“Geralt, if you had wanted me dead, you would have either cut me down when I followed you out of the tavern in Posada or let the Elves end me later. But that's not the kind of man you are.” His exasperation was plain to see. “You wished for peace. It's not your fault that jinn's cruel interpretation or your desire was magically ruining my throat.” 

“I could have killed you because I was careless.” He'd cursed himself many times since that day, trying to be more careful about how he handled his bard. Jaskier laughed, a light sound that put Geralt's heart at ease.

“And then you spent the rest of that day doing everything in your power and more to save my life.”

“I'm surprised you remember any of it.”

“I will admit that most of it is rather blurry up until the end when I woke up from that lovely dream into a nightmare. But I remember that you kept talking to me until she put me to sleep. It was the most I'd ever heard you speak since I first laid eyes on you.” Jaskier grinned. “I was beginning to think your vocabulary only included a dozen words or so.”

Geralt felt his mouth twitch before he sobered at the memory of racing into town, trying to find someone to help Jaskier. He'd kept talking him to him because he wanted to keep him awake. And the sound of his wheezing was so distressing, he'd been desperate to cover the horrible sound so he could convince himself that his companion wasn't dying slowly because he'd been stupid.

“What did you wish for?” Jaskier asked him.

Geralt's mouth suddenly went dry and he looked away. He swallowed. “I didn't want her to die,” he said finally. “It uh. . .didn't go quite the way I intended. That's why. . . “ Why was this so hard to say? Was he worried about what Jaskier would think of him for tying himself to Yennefer with magic? If anything, that should absolve him of responsibility even though he didn't feel that way. Or was it something else? He was reminded again of what Vesemir had said to him about creating ties to mortals. It was tricky and complicated. And it often ended in pain. “That's why Yennefer and I keep running into each other,” he said. “It's the wish. She would have gotten bored with me long ago, otherwise.” 

“And how does her nibs feel about that?” 

“She's thrilled,” Geralt said dryly. 

Jaskier laughed again. “Oh, that's lovely. I believe I am content in knowing she's unhappy with the outcome. Serves her right.”

“That's a bit petty, isn't it?”

“And eminently satisfying,” Jaskier said without a hint of remorse. He raised his arms and held them out in welcome. Geralt only hesitated for a moment before pulling up the blanket and sliding into bed with him. He wrapped himself around the other man, indulging in their closeness. He felt Jaskier's fingers combing through his hair and hummed low in his throat. 

“For what it's worth, I am sorry,” Geralt murmured.

“There is very little I wouldn't forgive you for in this world,” Jaskier said. “And that is saying quite a bit,” he said. “I can hold a grudge with the best of them when it suites me.”

“A waste of energy to be sure.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Valdo Marx deserves every drop of scorn that comes to him. At this point, I'm doing the public a service.” 

Not for the first time, Geralt wondered what the other troubadour had done to earn Jaskier's ire. He was indignant on occasion and quick to sputtering offense when he felt his reputation had been impugned. But he rarely got truly angry as far as he'd seen. With the exception of when Jaskier had thrown himself bodily between him and a sword, of course. The bard now had a scar from the blade that had nearly speared his back. The wound had healed to pink scar tissue weeks ago and Geralt both hated and loved to see it. It was frightening that someone would risk so much on his behalf and rewarding that Jaskier cared about him enough to do so. With the exception of his brother Wolves, he didn't recall anyone doing anything like that before. 

Geralt turned his head to press a gentle kiss to one of the marks he'd left. “You are truly magnanimous,” he said solemnly. Jaskier laughed quietly and held him close. They lay in the dark for a while after the candle sputtered out in its own wax. 

“I will accept anything you are willing to give me,” Jaskier said quietly in the darkness. 

“You have all of me, Jaskier. I have been yours for quite some time now.” There was a shuddering sigh in the dark and he felt the bard's grip tighten. He fell asleep listening to the sound of Jaskier's steady heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you reading. I appreciate being able to share my stories here.


End file.
